


Why I Love You

by TehLotteh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Hawke is smitten, M/M, and drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehLotteh/pseuds/TehLotteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Never took you for a hopeless romantic, Champion."</p>
<p>Hawke is drunk and Varric takes the opportunity to dig out the sentiments behind his relationship with a certain apostate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why I Love You

Varric once asked him, one late, drunken night at the Hanged Man, what it was about the blonde apostate from Darktown that made him love him so much. Hawke, in his pleasantly alcohol-muddled mind, had still been able to find a large number of reasons.

Physically, he was elegant, rugged, adorable and fierce, all at once. When he was lost in thought, staring out the window, he seemed wise beyond his years, with the grace of an old oak. His defined nose, high cheekbones that curved round into a sharp jawline, often peppered with stubble, and his golden hair, the silky, shiny locks that Hawke just loved to run his fingers through. The man looked gorgeous with it tied up and loose, but whenever they curled up in bed together, the Champion could not help but work the tie off and freeing his hair, slipping his hand into the soft strands and combing through them with a gentle hum. If the man had woken from a nightmare, Hawke would use the hair as leverage, pull his head to his chest and hold him close, using the action to ground him.

Then there were his eyes, rich like the colour of honey, the way they would burn with desire, melt with affection, or crack blue with anger and hatred at the sight of injustice. He could lose himself for hours in those eyes, recognised the flecks of pigments in them, knew them to belong to the man he loved. He adored seeing the skin at the ends crinkle, his eyes an almond shape that petered off into creases from both worry and laughter, a testament to the troubled life he had lead, though one that had sometimes found sparks of happiness in unexpected times.

“ _You, Hawke, are a spark of light I never hoped to find in this darkness I have lived in. I love you, Maker knows I do. I love you more than life itself. I wish only that we could live in better times.”_

_I love you._ Oh, Hawke explains, the way his soft lips form those words, and he feels them mirrored on his own. The way those lips find his at night, caress his skin, gently suck and tease and let out soft breaths that bring out goosebumps. The way that, in the midst of their throes of passion, he moans out his given name, _Garrett, Garrett,_ and the husk in his voice that makes Hawke's knees weak, and the way they twitch up at one end in public, that little show his way of saying _I love you always, love_ even though they cannot say it out loud, and as much as Hawke argues that he would shout to the world that he is in love with an apostate, and as much as the mage has begged to know for his own reassurance before insisting on silence, they know the feelings they share without the need for affectionate displays.

Hawke has learned to read all the signs - the terse pinching of his lips when he is displeased and refuses to say, that little pout he does when Hawke teases him in good nature and he lacks an adequate comeback. The way they break wide to reveal a flash of teeth in sheer joy, or tremble when he is about to break and crumble under the sheer weight of it all. He has seen the man chew his lip in worry, break through the skin, his tongue darting out to lick up the blood without seeming to realise. He has borne witness to the man grimacing in pain at an injury sustained while helping Hawke on a mission, seen his tongue poke out to the side in concentration while crafting a difficult spell, and heard the comforting words fall from those lips as he assists a patient.

“ _Is it only his body you love, Hawke?”_

No, he would reply, it is that and so much more. The way he would mutter in Ander if he thought nobody was listening, or if the pleasure one night was too much, and although Hawke did not understand the spoken words, the sentiments rang truer than any phrase in Common could. He loved sitting down in the evenings with a glass in hand, just watching as his lover bent over a desk, scribbling furiously the words he longed to share with the world. At times like this the mage would be lost to the world, his vision focused solely on the parchment he attacked with his quill. Hawke had read some of these, helped rephrase them, and there was something so _him_ in the sketchy, jagged handwriting that seemed to reflect his personality so. Hawke's had always been small, neat, understated, but the other man's writing seemed to spike about the lines and demand attention, the curves suggesting enforced scripture training while the roughness bespoke the rebellious nature he had been so famed for.

There was the way the man behaved around timid creatures, human and not, that had always caught his eye as well. He had seen him comfort young children, or give what little food he had to a starving urchin if he thought it would give them a better chance at life. Even before learning about the Grey Wardens' fierce appetite and ability to devour a banquet on their own, he had thought that the man had been exceedingly generous with his giving. With this knowledge, however, he realised that the man must be in a perpetual state of starvation, and that he could endure his own personal pain in order to help others warmed him to the core.

Once, they had come across some stray cats, and Hawke had watched in fascination as the other man knelt down in the mud, cooing to them, holding his hand out, urging them to come closer. He had fussed over them for a good long while, sending out small burst of healing magic to soothe their bruised and weary bodies, and Hawke had been able to do little but smile.

There was Justice, too, and although the spirit was a spanner in the works, he had to admit that he was an integral part of his lover that he could not imagine otherwise. Justice disliked him, he knew this, but when they had come face to face in the Fade while aiding Feynriel, the two had put aside their differences and worked to overcome the problem. While others may not approve, Hawke believed he could understand why the two decided to merge, and although there were certainly aspects about the results he would have loved to have changed, he knew that he and the mage would never have met otherwise, and that was just not a world he could envisage living in any more.

“ _Never took you for a hopeless romantic, Champion. So it's his mildly violent personality order that you love?”_

No. It's his passion. The way fire dances in his eyes when he speaks about that which he holds closest to his heart, his cause, his desire for equality. The man is always so _alive_ , so bright and burning that Hawke knows that if he gets too close, he may burn, even as the mage may burn himself with the strength of his desires. He strives without rest, determined, eager to make a difference, though still understands that it is a colossal task for just one man to undertake. But he's not alone.. No. He has Hawke. He always has, and always will. _I am with you, my love, til the ends of time. You are not alone._ With Bethany in the Circle, Hawke shared the want to see mages freed to live their own lives. He may not be one himself, but with two in his family he had seen the fear, what it could do to families. The Circles should be places of learning, not of captivity and fear, and he could see that slowly, inch by inch, Anders was making a difference.

His passion was a spark that seemed to only grow and grow, swelling and bursting and drawing people in like moths to a flame. Every setback, every obstacle only served to fan the flames, stoking it until it burned brighter than before. Hawke was sucked in, burning brightly with him, each night there with a hand on his shoulder, pride in his eyes. _You're doing it. You're making a difference, bringing about a brighter future for all_.

_We're in this together, love._


End file.
